


Spinning Reds

by esteri_ivy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AKA this is modern incest, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jonerys Halloween AU, Modern Royalty, Not for Catelyn fans, R Plus L Equals J, References to Suicide, Though to be fair none of my fics are, they're brief but please take note if that's an issue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-12-21 16:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21077648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteri_ivy/pseuds/esteri_ivy
Summary: Queen Rhaella I cordially invites you to attend her annual masquerade ball on Friday, October 31. A reply is requested to the Lord Hand no later than October 1. Black tie; masks required. // Or: Jon and Dany at a masquerade ball. Modern Royalty. For Jonerys AU month. Smut.





	1. Burning Glances, Turning Heads

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Meant to get this out on Thursday proper, but the second part of this fic has been a struggle. Decided to split it in half, but the vast majority of part two is already written.
> 
> Thanks as always to Sabrina, who I make listen to all my dumb ideas as I work through them. The bulk of my titles/honorifics/nobility knowledge is based on the British system, but as I'm not from the UK, please go easy on me.
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNING: Brief mentions of suicide.***

**Masquerade! Burning Glances, Turning Heads**  
**Masquerade! Stop and Stare At the Sea of Smiles Around You**  
**Masquerade! Grinning Yellows, Spinning Reds**  
**Masquerade! Take Your Fill, Let the Spectacle Astound You**

_-The Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

* * *

The collar of Jon’s tuxedo itched.

It had been an eternity since he'd last worn one. Longer still since he had been chauffeured in a limousine… hells, he wasn’t sure he could even remember the last time for that.

But tonight — for once — Jon felt as if he looked the part of a man who should be found sitting inside one.

Her Majesty Queen Rhaella I had hosted an annual All Hallow’s Eve masquerade ball at her King’s Landing palace for more than four decades now, but time had not worn away at its preeminence in high society. 

Dukes and duchesses, marquesses and marchionesses, earls and countesses… all of them traveled to the capital for it. To receive an invite was taken as an affirmation that one’s position in the peerage remained secure.

The Stark family had been invited each year since the event's inception, but Jon had been absent for all the ones held in his lifetime. He could scarcely believe it when his father had approached him, invitation in hand.

As a general rule, Jon didn’t accompany the Stark family on any nonessential official appearances. 

He had been present at his uncle Edmure’s wedding to Lady Roslin Frey. When his uncle Benjen was killed in combat, Jon sat alongside his family at the funeral… but galas were another matter. 

And a ball hosted by the queen? Typically, this sort of thing would be out of the question.

Officially, his absence was always due to some unfortunate scheduling coincidence. An urgent matter at home required attention, and Jon had ‘s_o very kindly’ _volunteered to see to it. Or he was away at his boarding school in the far North, studying hard.

But such excuses could only be used so many times before they started to seem foolish. His father’s wife had relied on boarding school to explain so many absences that the other nobles had started referring to him as Jon Snow. 

That sort of thing simply would not do. No family in the peerage wanted to appear as if they were isolating a son — even a less-than-legitimate one.

It was no longer the days of old, when bastards were unacknowledged by their sires or disavowed entirely. But for all that modern society had transformed, the nobility was slower to adjust.

Particularly with Jon, because he was no ordinary bastard.

Duke Eddard Stark of Winterfell swore upward, downward and sideways that Jon was his natural-born son, the product of an affair. It was a story nearly impossible to disprove; Ned claimed steadfastly that Jon’s mother had been a barmaid named Wylla who passed away shortly after his birth.

Almost no one bought it.

There were simply a few too many coincidences one needed to overlook — Lady Lyanna Stark’s abrupt termination of her engagement just days before her wedding was scheduled to occur, her overnight disappearance from the public eye. And then, the culmination of the scandal: Ned’s only sister passed away roughly six months after her disappearance, allegedly from a fever.

Less than 24 hours after her death was reported, Prince Rhaegar threw himself from a bridge.

What did manners matter to nobles when there was such gossip to be had? They whispered that the prince had loved Lyanna, but his mother had rejected the match. They said the queen was still tormented by her decision to this day, afraid to deny anything at all to her two remaining children. Most of all, they insisted that Lyanna had died in childbirth.

Jon had never quite been able to summon the nerve to confront his father about the rumors, but he supposed it didn’t matter much either way.

He was never going to be a candidate for the line of succession, and the whispers that Ned Stark wasn’t actually his sire had done little to improve the Duchess of Winterfell’s opinion of him.

Sometimes, Jon thought that his father’s wife was the only noblewoman in all of Westeros who believed he was the product of Ned’s adultery. He’d once shared his musings with his sister Arya, but she was convinced of just the opposite. 

“I think she just hates that he’d rather people believe he dishonored her than let them whisper about Aunt Lyanna’s ghost,” she had replied with a shrug.

Jon wasn’t certain; but no matter had incited her ire, there was no question of its existence. Duchess Catelyn hated him. Fiercely. Relentlessly.

It was what made him so certain that his father was jesting when he had extended the invitation.

_ “It’s long past time that you and Robb begin to show your faces at official events,” _ he’d said. _ “When you were at school, it was different. But you’re a man grown now, my son. You should be at our side when we travel as a family.” _

A vice gripped Jon’s heart again as he recalled the words, its stranglehold intense. It was the same feeling that had compelled him to take such care of his appearance tonight.

More than life — more than anything in the world — Jon had dreamed of being a true member of his family. Objectively he knew that he already was in every way that counted. But still, to not be looked at as the stain on Ned Stark's honor...

No, he would not embarrass his father. Not now that he was being given the chance to stand alongside him.

His tuxedo had been freshly pressed, collar starched. His shoes were scuff-free and shining. Jon had slicked his hair flat for a change — his riotous curls thoroughly tamed.

It was a mark of his efforts that when the family had departed their suite at The Valyria Hotel, Catelyn had not lobbed a single critique his way.

But now, in the limousine, a new problem had presented itself: Rickon, the youngest of the Stark children, was inconsolably terrified.

“Why can’t we stay at the hotel?” he whined from his seat to Jon’s left. “It’s a full moon tonight. There’ll be werewolves out.”

“Werewolves aren’t real,” Bran said from Rickon’s other side. “Don’t be stupid.”

His father’s stern voice exhaled a warning from the seat nearest to the door: “Brandon.”

Rickon looked toward him desperately, his small hands wrapped around his body. “Aren’t there werewolves, Jon? Tell Bran!”

Across from him, Sansa was touching up her lipstick in her compact mirror for the thousandth time. Arya was texting, somehow managing to look both bored and mutinous in her gown.

“Don’t worry, Rickon," Jon said. "The palace has lots of guards to stop any werewolves from getting in.” His words seemed to reassure the boy at last.

Across the car, he could see his father’s mouth pull into a soft smile.

Jon had been to Red Keep Castle just once before, as a young boy. The force of the memory struck him hard and heavy when their car pulled through the castle gates. He had been certain that his memories of the palace were exaggerated; children were more likely to be awestruck by a luxurious building than adults were.

But it seemed his mind had been true: If anything, the castle was more stunning than he remembered.

Traditionally garbed soldiers stood sentry near the doors; their metal armor gleamed as it reflected the light pouring from inside.

Jon tugged on his tuxedo jacket unconsciously as he exited the car. If Rhaegar Targaryen _ was _ his father… if he had lived… 

No.

The castle would never have been his home. He needed to remember that.

It took time to corral the entire family through security — it seemed Arya's earrings were made of some strange metal that set off detectors. But when they finally stepped through the ballroom entrance, Jon was stunned.

It was the height of elegance. There were no home-carved pumpkins or plastic skeletons to be found. Instead, the ballroom was covered in fall foliage. There was a little of everything, from multicolored leaves to cornucopias filled with flowers. Candles lined the walls around them. The pumpkins were painted a shimmering, bright gold.

Above them, dimmed chandeliers sparkled.

It was beautiful, to be sure. But almost too beautiful, in a way. It made him feel lewd, as though he’d stepped into a Renaissance painting wearing jeans.

He looked toward the entryway again, where Damon Marbrand, the Earl of Ashemark, and his family were entering. Behind them, he could see Cersei Lannister, the former Duchess of Storm’s End, being escorted into the ballroom by her brother. Cersei was beautiful; but if the rumors were to be believed, she was something of a nightmare.

Her father Tywin served as Lord Hand to Queen Rhaella and Prince Aerys.

The Starks made their way to their position in the receiving line, just a few guests over from the start of it. Due to the North’s size and historical significance, Ned Stark’s dukedom was considered rather prestigious.

To his right, Catelyn was fussing with Rickon. He could hear his youngest brother whining again. “But mummy, I need to go.”

“Hush, darling,” came Catelyn’s reply, kinder than Jon had ever heard it directed toward him. “Her Majesty will be arriving any moment. I’ll bring you to the restroom in just a few minutes.”

Rickon looked ready to burst; Jon turned toward them. “If it’s alright with you, ma’am, I can escort Rickon to the bathroom,” he said quietly. As always, her eyes stiffened when they landed on him.

For a moment, Catelyn seemed at war: Her desire to allow her son some comfort was in direct conflict with her stern belief that Jon was perpetually unhelpful. Finally, she nodded tersely. “It’s just as well. Then Her Majesty will not have to greet you.”

Jon swallowed his retort and reached for Rickon’s hand. The first and only time Jon met Queen Rhaella, she had stared over his shoulder like he wasn’t there at all. He had never settled his opinion on whether she was offended by the rumors of his parentage or by the insult of having to greet him at all.

This one time, his goals and Duchess Catelyn’s were aligned: Jon wasn’t sure he wanted to force Her Majesty to greet him, either.

* * *

By the time Jon made it back, Queen Rhaella and her husband had already greeted the bulk of their guests. He could see the queen standing at the far end of the room, Prince Aerys beside her. Their bright hair was a dead giveaway, even at a masquerade.

As Jon returned his little brother to Catelyn, he noted that he hadn’t seen any other sets of silver-white locks passing through the receiving line. He supposed the crown prince and the princess royal must have planned to arrive fashionably late.

It didn’t take long for him to see why. Clearly, he had romanticized these events beyond their wildest possibilities. 

They were less than a full 60 minutes into the four-hour event, and Jon was already bored. In retrospect, he felt it should have been obvious that a masked ball would not differ too greatly from any other society event. But somehow, he had still expected it to be better.

Well, let that be a lesson. Not one full hour in, and this was his _third glass of whiskey._

Jon had only just managed to escape before being roped into a conversation with his father, the Duke of Storm’s End, and the duke’s heir, Lord Joffrey. 

Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon had been best friends since their boarding school days; but despite their best efforts, their friendship hadn’t been replicated between any of their sons. 

Jon loathed Joffrey. And though it sometimes felt hard to believe, Robb hated the golden-haired twit even more.

Everyone here had a title — well, technically everyone but Jon himself, though everyone did their best not to acknowledge that. But still, _ Lord Joffrey _ was the only person who ever put up a fuss about his honorific being used.

The worst part of all was that their sister Sansa was angling for a match with him. As long as he lived, Jon would never forget the look of horror on Robb’s face when he’d realized he may have Joffrey Baratheon as a brother-in-law. But he could hardly blame Robb; Jon was no more excited by the prospect than his brother was.

The difference was that his own reluctance was not actually due to the pompous blond boy. 

What made Jon’s skull pound was Joffrey’s father. Every time Robert Baratheon got drunk, he would wax poetic about Lyanna Stark. Once, when Jon was a child and the duke was visiting them at Winterfell, he overheard the man ask if Jon was his.

_ “Come on, Ned…” _ Robert had muttered. _ “Everyone whispers that she was pregnant. That the boy was really hers. Is he… is he my son?” _

Ned’s reply had been hard and cold. _ “I have told you a hundred times that Jon is my son. And in any case, you’re not looking for another man to raise, Robert. You’re looking for my sister’s ghost.” _

Before that night, Robert had been friendly and kind to him. He’d watched him like a hawk. No feat of his, be it a home run in backyard baseball or a growth spurt, was too small to warrant praise. Now, he might as well be a ghost.

He reached the bar and turned to eye the group he’d just escaped from. Joffrey was gesticulating wildly, telling some sure-to-be inane story. But Jon’s brother was staring straight at him, his desperation to flee written plainly across his face.

Jon raised his glass in a salute and tried not to laugh too hard. He was certain that Robb wanted to flip him a middle finger. Eventually, a small chuckle fought its way through his teeth and out of his mouth, low and sincere.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a new face at one of these events,” came a pleasant voice.

Jon turned toward the noise. When his eyes landed on its source, they bulged.

Even masked, he was positive that she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. She had rich, dark hair that fell in shoulder-length curls — styled like an old movie vixen’s. A delicate black mask, thinner than most attendees’, covered the top half of her face, framing eyes he was certain bore colored contacts.

No one in the peerage but the Stark family had gray eyes; and if Jon was sure of anything, it was that this woman wasn’t a Stark.

But it wasn’t just her face that stole his breath. The expanse of open skin at her chest was utterly _ scandalous _. He imagined this woman must be rather important… a cousin to the crown, perhaps. Or one of the prince’s mistresses. Otherwise, he couldn’t believe someone would be permitted into Her Majesty’s halls in such a revealing gown — even on Halloween. 

His mouth watered just looking at it.

Long, black and silky; the thin fabric hung behind her like a cape. Two simple ties at her shoulders seemed to be all that kept it in place. In the front, the deep neck of the gown revealed the curves of her breasts, full and smooth. 

He allowed his gaze to drift back up to her full, red lips.

Instantly — inappropriately — his mind conjured an image of them wrapped around his length.

His cock immediately stiffened. Every inch of this woman made him feel _ hungry. _

Names raced through his mind, chunks of the family trees he’d been forced to memorize as a boy. A Targaryen cousin? Or a Dayne, perhaps.

Jon realized that he hadn’t answered her.

“I’m not sure you can see much of my face, to be fair,” he said, picking up his rocks glass and turning to face her properly.

The contacts weren’t opaque enough to block her eyes’ glimmer. She stepped closer, a champagne flute held delicately between her fingers. Refined. 

Aristocratic.

There was a lone crimson stain where the rim of the glass had met her mouth.

“True,” she allowed in her proper lilt, “but there aren’t many Northern guests here this evening. And let it suffice to say, you don’t resemble the Marquess Manderly’s son.”

He let himself grin wider at the words she _ hadn’t _ said; the Manderlys were hard to mistake.

“The Manderlys aren’t the only Northerners in the peerage,” he replied. “Maybe I’m a Stark.”

Now it was her turn to grin. A pretty grin. 

It was dangerous.

“I’m quite certain you’re a Stark,” she said in a low voice. “Your eyes give you away. But you aren’t Lord Robb, are you?”

She’d phrased it like a question, but he could tell that it wasn’t one.

Jon took another sip of his whiskey and let the amber liquid burn its way down his throat before he answered her. “I could be. Do you think I am?”

Until now, their banter had been light. Flirtatious. But she seemed to take the question seriously. The woman took a step back to observe him, her eyes hovering on his slicked down hair, slowly moving down his body. She allowed her gaze to linger on his shoulders for a bit before meeting his eyes once more.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t think you are.”

Jon supposed he should be impressed by her ability to identify him, but his heart fell. This sort of thing had happened before: Women confusing him and his trueborn brother. Robb was single, and there was no shortage of eligible women eager to become the next Duchess of Winterfell. 

But once they realized he was not the heir, interest always waned. There was only one other Stark brother near Robb’s age, and ladies of the court generally had little interest in sullying themselves with a bastard.

Jon waited for the hammer to fall, for her eyes to dull. Inexplicably, they didn’t.

Instead, the woman moved closer — nearer to him even than she’d been before. By now, she must have known who he was, but still, she was here.

An odd fondness formed in his chest.

“This is my favorite night of the year, you know,” she whispered. “All these lords and ladies, stumbling around in masks as though no one can see them. All they need is a hint of plausible deniability, and suddenly they become drunken louts.”

Her rich brown curls skimmed the tops of her shoulders, one brave lock even dipping into the hollow of her clavicle. He wanted to sully that clear, perfect skin. Mark it. Claim it.

Perhaps Rickon’s fears were warranted; the full moon seemed to have turned him into an animal.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I, for one, couldn’t begin to guess which one Lord Oberyn is.”

Her lips twitched. Oberyn Martell had followed the dress code... and then some. He’d arrived clothed as the Phantom of the Opera, complete with a red rose and an elaborate cape. It was _ technically _ black tie, but the queen’s invitation had not called for costumes.

His half-face covering did nothing to disguise him, but it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. The Duke of Sunspear’s brother was the only person who would come to a gala dressed as such.

“I don’t know that Lord Oberyn has ever met a dress code he _ did _ comply with,” the woman said blithely. “He wore short sleeves to Marquess Redwyne’s winter wedding last year.”

Jon’s grin stretched wider. “What about Duchess Olenna? I know you can’t find her in this crowd.”

Olenna Tyrell wore an elaborate headpiece to every event she attended. At present, she was not 20 feet from them, berating her son for his poor manners. Loudly.

His mystery woman laughed, and his heart raced. It was lovely, just like everything else about her.

“What’s your name?” Jon finally let out, unable to contain it further.

Her face settled back into a coy grin. “Come now. This is a masquerade. I cannot just _ tell you _ who I am.”

Two feelings warred within him. Frustration that he knew nothing when she so clearly knew who he was… but admiration, too.

The rest of the party had faded from his periphery. There was only this clever woman in her sinful gown; everything else was irrelevant.

Jon rarely attempted to speak the way the highborn did, preferring to wear his otherness. But still, he’d sat through enough etiquette classes alongside his brothers to keep up.

“I mean no offense, but don’t you find it a bit rude to withhold your identity?” he asked. “You seem to know mine; it’s hardly good manners to hide your own.”

She took another step forward, as close now as she could come before their bodies would touch. His mind made time to wonder if anyone was watching them. At an event like this, their behavior was practically tawdry.

“I still had to guess who you were, my lord,” came her voice. Gods, she was alluring.

“If you know who I am, then you know I’m no lord,” he replied quietly. His heart was pounding.

She tilted her head and observed him for a moment before bringing that thrice-damned glass back to her lips, swallowing the last of the sparkling liquid. The bartender seemed to have been waiting for an opportunity to serve her, for he was at their side in an instant. Within moments, a fresh glass had replaced her old one.

The woman kept her eyes locked to his. “That may be true; but on All Hallow’s Eve, you can be anything you want to,” she finally said. She took a sip of her glass, staining the new flute. “I’ll see you again in a little while, _ my lord. _”

She turned then and drifted into the crowd. It took no time at all for his body to react; his displeasure at losing sight of such a creature rolled through his stomach, demanding he chase after her.

Jon was quite certain a woman’s eyes had never seared into him in such a way. He could hear the timber of her voice in his mind, over and over again.

_ My lord… my lord... _

My lord.

* * *

He caught sight of her again one hour and another whiskey later. Jon had made the rounds in the interim, but he couldn’t keep his mind off of his mystery woman and her champagne glass.

His brain was fixated on the red that stained her glass’s edge; his thoughts were filthy.

Those plush lips… he wanted to see her bite them as he licked his way up her thighs.

Jon thanked the gods this was a masked event. He was sure his covering was the only reason that the other attendees hadn’t guessed what pleasurable pursuits occupied his mind.

With half his face obscured, he apparently just looked upset.

Robb had teased him mercilessly: _ ‘Even Stannis Baratheon looks like he’s having more fun than you are, Jon,’ _ his brother had said.

Stannis was brooding in the corner of the room, face dour. It was no secret that he hated these parties — their frivolity. And if not for the mystery woman, Jon was pretty sure he’d be on Stannis’s side. 

Dutifully greeting his father’s friends while Catelyn watched him through narrowed eyes was less than thrilling, and he had politely excused himself again as soon as was appropriate. 

Robb was trying his hardest not to flirt too overtly with Lady Margaery Tyrell. He could see Sansa’s shining red hair next to Joffrey. Arya had vanished entirely, as she often did during formal events. Bran and Rickon were with his father.

The bartender had only just passed him his fourth drink of the evening when she finally reappeared in his line of sight. 

Somehow, she was alone again. He couldn’t understand it; how was it possible that such a woman be left unattended once... let alone twice? This time, he didn’t wait for her to approach.

“Hello again.”

She turned to face him and he was pleased to see her lips pull up into a smile. “Hello, indeed.”

The beast in his chest was soothed by her presence, but there was still a greedy, covetous feeling just beneath the surface.

This woman was here with him _ for now _, but there was no guarantee that she would not grow bored and walk away. “I don’t know if it speaks highly of the two of us that we’ve reunited at the bar,” he drawled, pleased when she rewarded him with a surprised laugh.

“No,” she replied, “I don’t suppose it does… have you come up with any good theories yet, as to who I am?”

Absentmindedly, she toyed with one of her curls, but there was the faintest air of curiosity beneath the surface.

“Not really," he admitted. "If you were any less bold, I’d say you were a marchioness, but you’re too comfortable in your position. Both times that we’ve spoken, you’ve been alone. You must be someone’s daughter. A duke’s, probably. That would make you a lady, then?” Jon guessed.

“Nearly,” she said, unnerved. “You’re quite insightful, you know. I suppose I’m often less of a lady than my mother wishes me to be, but here we are.”

The alcohol had clearly dulled his senses, for his next words spilled out before he could consider them: “Then your mother’s a fool; you’re the only interesting person here.”

Though she tried to tamp her reaction down, Jon could tell she was pleased by his words. She seemed to be beating back a laugh.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever heard anyone criticize my mother before,” she grinned. “And certainly not by any of the gentleman who come to these types of parties.”

“Your record’s still clean, then,” Jon insisted. “You said it yourself earlier — I never come to these things… and I assure you, I’m no gentleman.”

Her breath might’ve hitched, though he wasn’t sure if that was simply wishful thinking. He felt lightheaded, like he was on the edge of a tall cliff.

“Should I not still be offended that a stranger is criticizing my mother?” she asked in a serious voice. Her smile gave her away.

It was Jon who stepped forward again, closing the bulk of the distance between them. “If she’s disappointed by you, then she deserves to be criticized.”

Her breaths had gotten higher now; the portion of her cheeks not blocked by her mask was flushed pink. “Just where have the Northerners been hiding you?” she asked. “I feel like I should lodge a complaint.”

The temptation to reach for her was almost painful.

“I’m only allowed out on the full moon,” he joked. “The rest of the time, they keep me locked in a cellar.”

Her glass was empty again. She placed it on the bar beside her without breaking eye contact. “I suppose I shall have to come North and rescue you, then. Otherwise, I risk eternal boredom at these parties.”

Jon shifted his weight, and for a moment, their bodies brushed against each other. “Are you sure you’ll be alright up North? It’s cold up there for a Southern girl.”

“I’ve got a very warm coat.” One of her fingers was toying with his lapel. 

He swallowed reflexively. “Still. Seems like a lot of work for a conversation partner. Is everyone else here truly that dull?”

“You have no idea,” she said. “I’ve spent the night in hiding. Even my parents aren’t entirely certain where I am right now.”

It would be so easy to grab her here — now — and press them together. But this wasn’t the time, and it definitely wasn’t the place.

"In that case, you're welcome to come North and kidnap me anytime you like," he murmured. 

She eyed him for a moment and tugged one of her crimson lips between her teeth. She looked contemplative. Finally, she stepped away from the counter and turned to leave.

Jon's heart fell as he tried to figure out where he'd gone wrong, but it was for naught. She wasn't three feet away when she looked back and called over to him.

“This room is stuffy. Would you like to see the best view the castle has to offer?” she asked.

“Mercy, woman,” he replied, pushing off of the bar to follow her in spite of his words. “You’re going to get us thrown into the dungeons.”

She grinned at him. “Her Majesty doesn’t use the dungeons anymore… at least, not very often.”

A devil — that’s what she was dressed as. Temptation made flesh.

The partygoers were distracted by their own attempts to feign sobriety better than the person nearest to them. No one noticed them slip away.

His mystery woman led him down a hallway and through several doors. Up a flight of stairs. Down another hall.

A buzz came from his jacket’s pocket. His phone — Robb, probably.

He flicked it out and saw his brother’s name emblazoned on the screen.

**Robb**  
_ Sneaking outside for a bit with Margaery… behave, wherever the hell you ran off to. _

Jon shook his head and grinned a bit, dropping his cell back in his pocket.

He moved closer to the woman as she finally came to a stop in front of one final door. Even in heels, she was a bit shorter than him.

“You sure we’re still in the castle?” he joked in her ear.

She rolled her lensed eyes and turned the door’s handle, pulling him in after her. He stepped forward, stunned, as he took in the view before him.

He heard her click the door shut behind him — heard the lock turn, even — but he was too floored by the view in front of him to process its meaning.

She was right; this was the best view of the city he’d ever seen. A stunning room with a vaulted ceiling and rich furnishings. And at its end, a massive floor-to-ceiling glass window. Beyond it, he could see the water.

The lights of King’s Landing glittered.

It wasn’t until she crossed him to move to the window that he refocused his attention on his companion.

In the dim light, with only the outside world to color her, she was even more breathtaking.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. Jon knew he was drunk; he knew he’d consumed too much whiskey for him not to be. And yet, his mind felt clear. It was possessed by desire for this stranger. For knowledge, for her body, for everything.

“Will you ask me until I give you a name?” she grinned as she turned back to face him. 

The moon backlighting her obscured her features, leaving nothing but her curves and the shadows.

“I might,” Jon said, unable to form a better argument.

She looked around the room contemplatively before coming to stand directly in front of him. “We’re in the Maidenvault,” she finally said. “How about you call me Daena?” 

Princess Daena Targaryen had once lived in this room. She’d been known as Daena the Defiant for refusing her arranged marriage and laying with another. A scandal at the time, though these days more people sympathized with the woman herself than with her captors.

Princess Daena had been, above all else, a free spirit.

“Daena the Defiant seems appropriate for a woman like you,” he teased. “Such a corrupting influence, dragging me from Her Majesty’s halls, promising to bail me out of my cellar.”

She lifted one small hand, gliding it over the top of his shoulder. “I did warn you I’m not a proper lady,” she said quietly.

“Aye, and I told you that I’m no proper gentleman,” he replied.

She nodded absentmindedly. “True. But we can be anything on Halloween.”

Nothing had happened; and yet, the atmosphere was suddenly more serious. Charged and heavy. Thick and overwhelming.

“When I was young, I wanted to be one of them,” he said suddenly. “I wanted to be like the rest.”

Jon wasn’t sure what made him say it. Especially to a stranger. All he knew was this woman who had brought him here and named herself for a rogue royal felt more intimate to him than anyone he’d ever met.

“I’m glad you’re not,” she said, voice wistful. “You’re wearing a mask tonight, but they never really take theirs off. All of us are the same, just actors on a stage.”

Slowly — enough that she could step away — he lifted an arm and wrapped it around her waist. “You are not like everyone else,” he whispered.

Her next words were so soft that he half-read her lips: “You’re Jon Stark, right?”

His throat bobbed. “Yes.”

Time slowed to a crawl. Her hand cupped his jaw.

“Please,” he whispered — half-begged, really. “Please let me take your mask off. I want to see you.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked a bit frightened. “Yours first,” she breathed.

Jon nodded. It was a small price to pay to remove the wiry black barrier that obscured her.

She reached behind his head slowly and tugged on the ribbon tie, lifting his mask gently from his face. He felt strangely on display until he realized her pupils had dilated. 

“Gods, you’re...” she trailed off. The full moon gleamed through the window, shining on the two of them.

Without another word, she untied her own mask, letting it drop to the stone beneath them with a thud.

‘Daena’ was so fucking beautiful that Jon lost his breath. “Where in the hells did you come from?” he asked, dazed.

With the mask gone, she _ did _ look familiar — very familiar — but he had no more time to ponder why that was before she grabbed his jacket lapels and fused them together.

Her lips were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Soft and demanding and with a hint of expensive champagne still clinging to them. He pulled her closer until they were flush against each other.

It wasn’t close enough.

Her hands were clutching at him; he fisted one into her hair. She was everywhere, and it was too much. It was everything, all at the same time. Their teeth clattered as they devoured one another.

He had never, never, _ never _ felt like this.

Frantic fingers were shoving at his jacket, sliding it off him. It fell to the ground with a hard thud that his brain noted probably came from his phone.

He didn’t care at all. Not with her pulling open his bowtie and reaching for the front of his belt. Jon felt that animalistic lust inside him again, the one that had near-crippled him as he stood before her in the ballroom. 

With what might have been a low growl, he attached his lips to her neck, sucking and biting his way down it. She bucked in his arms as he brushed over one area.

He repeated the movement, and the sound she made was inhuman.

She had managed to get him half-naked remarkably quickly, his shirt abandoned on the ground and his pants unzipped. He needed to return the favor.

It was unbelievable how little was holding her dress up. All he needed to do was undo one zipper and unclasp one latch on each shoulder, and the gown pooled at her feet, a pile of lush fabric. And then she stood before him in nothing but a thong.

He had never seen a woman like her. Smooth, perfect skin. Her tits were full and round, nipples hard.

Jon leaned forward and took one into his mouth without thinking; his tongue lavishing her. She threw her head back, her mouth opening into a silent circle.

He took the other in his hand, massaging it with his thumb. They stumbled to the ground, the plush carpet cushioning them. 

“I need,” she whispered. “Oh gods.”

Then she reached into his pants and stroked his length. His exhaled _ “Daena” _ was more a groan than an actual word.

Her lips brushed his neck, and she muttered into his skin: “It’s Dany. I’m _Dany_.”

A part of Jon’s mind roared in triumph, vicious in its satisfaction to have earned her real name. But she was still stroking him, and the pleasure was too much for him to stand.

“Dany,” he tested, running a finger down her body and over her soaked underwear. Her keening cry wiped the rest of his brain clean.

He didn’t bother with sliding the thong away from her skin. In one sharp motion, he tore the lace from her. The scrap of fabric fell abandoned beside them.

Jon shrugged his pants the rest of the way down his legs and plunged two fingers inside her. It seemed to be too much for her at last, her hand falling away from his cock as she writhed against his fingers.

He felt strangely powerful — important. “You’re so wet, Dany,” he murmured into her ear as he slid fingers in and out of her. “So sexy. Do you know how much I want you?”

Dany’s eyes nearly rolled back into her head, but she tried to steady herself. With a breath, she choked out a question: “Do you know who I am? Is it okay with you?”

Jon looked at her for a moment; she seemed serious, even as her pussy clenched itself around his fingers. The effort to keep himself still was physically painful. 

As for her question: Jon had a suspicion. One that had been building, block by block, minute by minute. He could know. He _might_ know. 

But if he were wrong... 

“I’m not —” he hesitated. “There’s no answer that would stop me from wanting you right now. I don’t give a fuck who you are.”

She squeezed her eyes shut at his words, a little moan escaping her. “Are you sure?” she panted. “You promise that’s true?”

“Dany,” he pleaded, “I’ve never wanted anyone this much in my entire life, I promise. _Please_.”

His words seemed to settle her concerns. When she finally nodded, he nearly cried in relief.

Jon couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears — couldn’t see anything but her, this woman, who looked to have been made for worship. 

Her cheeks were flushed so dark that he could see them even in the pale starlight.

She met his eyes, her own glazed with desire. “Fuck me, Jon,” she said softly.

He swallowed and removed his fingers, grabbing his cock to line it up with her entrance. Finally, he slid his length into her.

He nearly passed out. She was sopping wet, slick and hot. It felt like he was burning.

Shaking from the effort not to spill in her instantly, Jon thrusted again. Her cry sent a shockwave through his body.

He tried his hardest to hold himself up above her body, to ensure that he didn’t crush her beneath him. His knees were shaking.

Finally, he began fucking her in earnest, lifting one hand to reach for her pussy. His fingers circled her nub, and her hips quaked.

Jon needed her to cum, needed to see her break beneath him. He needed to have her clench around his cock, even though he was quite sure that the feeling would kill him.

But it seemed she had other ideas. With a strength that surprised him, Dany flipped them over. Her legs came down to straddle his as she remained mounted on top of him.

“Not yet. Need to have you longer,” she breathed out. Then she sank down fully, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

She was circling her hips as she rode him, her tits bouncing.

“Fuck,” he choked out, barely able to speak. “Fucking hells, _ you’re so bloody perfect.” _

He wasn’t sure if it had been seconds or months. Everything but her had ceased to exist.

Jon could feel his balls tightening; he tried desperately to stop himself from peaking.

“Dany, stop, stop,” he stuttered. “I’m going to cum if you keep doing that.”

She groaned but kept going; his vision blurred.

He had just enough presence of mind to put his thumb back where their bodies met, rubbing twice before he could not hold himself off any longer.

Jon came so hard that he thought he might black out. He was surprised that Dany’s cry when she came — her pussy throbbing as it milked him — wasn’t enough to kill him outright.

It felt like years had passed when he was at last able to open his eyes.

She was flat against him, still quivering from the aftermath. Slowly, he slid out of her, some of his seed trickling out.

Jon pulled her into his arms, lost for words. Feeling very much like he’d been struck dumb, he pressed his lips to her hair.

Dany tilted her head up to look at him, and he kissed her hard. A fierce, possessive claim.

He could not imagine what it had been like before tonight, before he’d met her. Jon didn’t understand how he’d gone so long without knowing her.

Unbidden, her frantic question returned to him — the nervous way she’d asked him if he cared who she was.

If not just from her features, then his theory had certainly taken root by the time she led him into the Maidenvault. But his brain was still stubbornly refusing to accept it — needed to hear her say it before it could be real.

“Who are you?” he whispered for the thousandth time that evening. She stiffened in his arms.

“You know who I am,” she whispered.

Yes, he did. Dany.

_Daenerys_, the Princess Royal.

Jon shook his head as though dislodging water. “The princess is blonde,” he said stupidly, sitting up. “Her eyes are purple.”

She matched his position, though with one perfectly sculpted brow raised. “It’s Halloween,” she replied. In a quick, graceful move, she reached up to her face and popped her contact lenses out, dropping them on the ground beside them.

Jon realized he’d been glib. Her eyes weren’t _purple;_ that wasn’t enough to describe them.

Amethysts. Lavender. Violet eyes.

Targaryen eyes.

..._Targaryen eyes. _

Now Jon was the one who was nervous, because unless Ned Stark’s absurd tale was actually true, it was exceedingly likely he’d just slept with his aunt. And whatever rumors the peerage was comfortable whispering amongst themselves, Jon was sure they wouldn’t dare do so in front of the royal family.

Which meant that the best sex of his life, the most connected he’d ever felt to another person, the intense possessiveness he already felt for this woman… all of it was about to be tainted.

“Fucking hells,” he whispered morosely. “Dany, I’m so sorry. You’re going to hate me.”

She shook her head in reply. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t. I won’t.”

“My father,” he managed. “I don’t know if… I don’t think that.” This wasn’t getting anywhere.

To his shock, Dany finished the sentence for him. “My brother and Lady Lyanna Stark?”

His jaw dropped as he nodded dumbly. 

Dany’s smile was small and soft. “That’s why I asked if you cared.” Her smile fell a bit. “But you didn’t really know it was me, did you?”

She pulled away, and his body screamed at the loss. He reached forward and pulled her back to him. “I told you, there was nothing you could’ve said that would make me not want you.”

Her smile had grown distinctly more watery. But while Dany seemed mollified, an uglier thought had crept into his mind.

The idea of being apart from her already unsettled him. It was absurd; they'd known each other a couple hours at most. And yet, he couldn't stand the thought of not having her again. The fact that she didn't care about their relation should have made him happy, but he knew it didn’t really matter. 

He was still a bastard, and bastards did not get to court princesses.

The two of them laid there a little while longer. The moon was bright in the evening sky.


	2. Let The Spectacle Astound You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. What is there to say other than writing is unpredictable? I had truly hoped to have this out just a couple days after Pt. 1, but the obscene amount of drafts I wrote for this section held me back. Thanks to all the wonderful people who encouraged me about getting this thing done. I love you all. 
> 
> (PS - I did my final grammar check at 3am, so I'm sure I'll catch some more typos tomorrow. -_-)

**To Our Friends Who Are Here**   
**And May The Splendor Never Fade**   
**What A Blessed Release**   
**And What A Masquerade**

-_The Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

* * *

Eventually, the two of them conceded that if they stayed away from the party much longer, their disappearance would be noted.

Jon pulled himself from the warmth of her body with a scowl; he would’ve been content to remain curled around her in the Maidenvault for far longer, if he thought he could get away with it.

Helping Dany — _the princess,_ he kept reminding himself — put her gown back on felt oddly intimate. His outfit was far easier to manage than hers. And while he was undoubtedly a bit mussed, it would be hard for anyone to guess what he'd been doing from a few slight creases in his jacket.

Dany's dress, on the other hand, required a different level of navigation to reset than it had when he took it off her. She primly straightened the gown's neckline as he helped her re-tie the shoulders, distracted by a growing urge to press his lips to the expanse of skin at her collar.

She had no issue with their relation, and he still couldn't believe it. Jon kept expecting for it to suddenly click in her mind that she should be horrified by what they'd done. Hells, he half-expected such a sentiment to come from his own brain. 

But no… whatever shame he should have felt for laying with her refused to present itself.

Standing in front of her, all he could focus on was the overwhelming feeling of wanting it to happen _again._

It was hard to think of her as his aunt — or his _potential_ aunt, he supposed. 

Jon had never even met Daenerys before tonight. She didn't feel like family. When he looked at her, he didn't feel the same thing he felt for Sansa or Arya.

And thank the gods for that, because what he felt for Dany was decidedly filthier. He wanted to feel her clench around him as he took her, wanted to suckle her tits and take the time to thoroughly map the lines of her body — for fuck's sake, he hadn't even gotten the chance to taste her.

Damn it to all seven of the hells; he was hard again.

Jon could see her lips twitch up, and he realized he'd been so lost in thoughts of what he wanted to do to her that his hands had stilled.

"Copper for your thoughts?" she asked with a small smile as she tugged on the skirt of her gown, flattening it over her hips. She hadn't put her mask back on yet; her smile was warm.

"Pretty sure those sort of thoughts could get a man fined if he said them in public," Jon replied drily.

Daenerys giggled. "Don't be silly. It's only the actual _activities_ they'll fine you for." She took a half-step so that she was facing him directly. She had abandoned her slate-colored contacts; they were left for dead somewhere on the ground beside them. 

For the thousandth time, he was shocked by his own oversight. Even with dark hair and the lenses, it seemed unthinkable to him that for even one moment, he hadn't recognized the face of a woman so famous. 

Jon tugged gently on one of her curls, a hand coming up to rest on her jaw.

He shouldn't do this, shouldn't touch her. Kissing her again would make it worse, so much worse. How could he be expected to leave the Maidenvault with her and return to the ballroom, where they’d be separated once more by the utterly different stratospheres they occupied?

Just above his thumb, her cheek had turned a rosy, petal pink. The red lipstick was gone, probably checkered across his skin. Dany was staring up at him, and she looked so sweet that it was hard to stop himself from tasting her again. From biting into her swollen lips.

He felt greedy.

_Hungry._

Yes, he definitely wanted to devour her again.

For the thousandth time that evening, Jon thought of the Stark family coat of arms and little Rickon. The full moon was bold against the ink-blue sky. Small clusters of stars dotted throughout. 

_She was his. She was his. His, his, _ _his_ _._

The animal inside him was insatiable.

There was little at that moment that could have broken through his revelry, but the feeling of her hand resting on the jointure of his neck and shoulder combined with her sweet voice managed it: "If you keep looking at me like that,” she muttered, “I’m going to lock you in here so I can come have my wicked way with you whenever I like.”

Jon's voice was husky even to his own ears as he reached for her properly, his arms locking around her waist. "I don't know if I like the sound of that; seems like it'd be pretty boring whenever you weren't here."

“I could just stay here, too, I suppose,” she pouted. “That sounds alright to me.”

He closed the space between them. "Aye, then. If you'll be there, why not?" he murmured. He kissed her once. Twice.

Dany trembled the slightest bit. But then she took a deep breath and straightened up, as if preparing herself. She took one small step back and looked him dead in the face.

"In all seriousness, Jon, I should rather like to see you again... If that would please you." she trailed.

There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, the tension in her spine: She was nervous about his reply. But there was no understanding it, either. 

How in any of the seven bloody hells — in what gods-damned universe — no, in _no_ gods-damned universe was this even a question. If anything, it frustrated him that there was a miscommunication between them that made her wonder at all.

And Jon had no qualms with telling her as much: "You kidding with that, Dany?" he growled. "You think there's a single chance that I wouldn’t want to see you again?"

Her shoulders relaxed a little at the second half of his exclamation, shedding a tension he hadn't realized she was holding. But just as she relaxed, his own distress returned.

Even if it was for mere seconds, Jon wasn’t sure how he’d managed to forget his own identity — especially given that he had thought about this just minutes before, laying there with her in his arms. 

Whether his father was Eddard Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen mattered little; he was undoubtedly a bastard, and Daenerys was the only daughter of the reigning monarchs.

It was too much to hope the queen would overlook such a thing. His sole memory of the woman ran through his mind once more: Her apathetic behavior, staring over his shoulder blandly as though the sight of him would turn her stomach. 

No, Dany’s mother wouldn't even look at him. Surely that was proof enough that this was a doomed endeavor.

Jon reached forward and brushed a thumb lightly over the sculpted bones of her cheek. Looking at her was almost like observing art; her eyes were no less than the gods’ finest work.

Hesitantly, he said the words he’d been avoiding: “Regardless, I don’t think your parents are going to see eye-to-eye with us.”

Dany’s eyes narrowed as her mouth tightened into a scowl. With one sharp movement, she reached out and clutched the front of his jacket. Tightly.

Possessive.

She closed the tiny gap between them, her frown pulling her lips down.

“My father has no say in the matter,” she said, “and my mother wouldn’t dare fight me on this.”

“You’re certain?” he asked warily. “Even though it’s me?”

He could not let her confidence seep into him. Dany hadn’t been there when he met the queen; she hadn’t seen what Jon had.

Her eyes were flint. “Especially not when it comes to you.”

Jon wished he shared her optimism, but a lifetime of being shuffled out of sight whenever it wasn’t absolutely necessary to include him had taught him otherwise. 

"If you think you can convince her, you sure as hell won't be hearing me complain," he said.

Her face softened at his words. She released his lapel, hand moving up to cup his cheek. "When we get back to the ballroom, I’m going to go tell my mother about you. She likes a bit of a lie-in the day after the masquerade, so she never schedules much of anything. It shouldn’t be a problem to set a meeting before your family departs King's Landing.”

Later, he would revisit the way he had jumped (as if he'd been electrocuted) with some embarrassment. But right now, his brain was too occupied by horror. 

“You want me to meet the queen tomorrow?” he asked, jaw agape. “Do I — would my father and the duchess need to be there?”

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “My mother’s not _that_ frightening, Jon. And no, most likely she’ll just want to meet with you at this stage.”

Throat bobbing, mind buzzing, he nodded. Dany’s words kept running through his brain: ‘at this stage.’ He supposed that, to her, it all seemed pretty standard. But Jon had grown up all but certain that he would receive no proper society match. Stages of courtship were for men like Robb.

Still, he did his best to play it cool. “Aye, uh… alright, then,” he stumbled out. “I should probably introduce you to my father, though. Or — well, I suppose you’ve met him.”

_Gods, _he sounded like a fucking moron. Blessedly, she just seemed to find it amusing.

Both as presentable as they could get, she led him back through the palace toward the ballroom. 

The walk back was quiet — Dany, too, seemed lost in thought. With every silent step, his heart sank further into his stomach. Despite her assurances, Jon was rather certain that a better idea would be if they simply ran away together.

Ahead, the sounds of the masquerade grew louder. He was relieved that the party hadn’t ended while they’d been hidden away from the world.

Just before they entered the ballroom, she stopped. Dany reached for his face again, taking his jaw between her hands and looking up at him. Still so beautiful, still temptation made flesh… but of a sweeter kind. 

The apple, not the snake. 

Her eyes were determined; her words were hopeful.

“Most of the rumors about my… about _our_ family aren’t true. But one of them is, Jon. My mother will not reject me if I tell her there is someone I want to be with. She would not dare.”

No... they weren’t just words. They were a promise.

He nodded, fighting down the stupid, inexplicable urge he still to grab her and flee. The two of them silently retied their masks. Once his own was in place, he felt a strange calm settle over him.

His entire life so far had been spent without Her Royal Highness Princess Daenerys. If nothing was allowed to come of this, at least he had a night of memories to hold onto.

She brushed her lips against his one last time, and then she was sliding through the doors, back into the ballroom.

Jon waited a moment before following.

His fear that he’d be spotted returning was in vain — the partygoers were even less sober than they’d been when the two of them snuck away.

The nearest people to him were the Velaryons and Daynes, in heavy conversation over some business proposition. 

Standing beside her husband, the Marchioness Velaryon’s smile was just a bit too bright. Her eyes were unfocused. Still, she was doing better than Marquess Dayne’s wife, who had clearly lost all interest in their discussion. She was staring down at her phone, not even pretending to listen.

He scanned the room as he moved back into the crowd, edging in from the side.

At last, he found what he’d been searching for: Up ahead, the white-blonde hair of Queen Rhaella.

Dany had wasted no time at all, it seemed. She had re-entered the ballroom seconds before him; but somehow, she had already located her mother. 

He could see her cutting into a conversation between the queen and Duke Hoster Tully of the Riverlands. Jon bit back a laugh at the scandalized look on the man's face. Duke Tully's scowl was so very like his daughter's.

But now that Dany had her parents' attention, he wanted to slink back. The feeling was foolish; it was not as if he'd be able to hide from them either way. 

Nevertheless, Jon made his way to the bar. His drunkenness had worn off, and he had a sinking suspicion he’d prefer a buzz before introducing his father to the aunt he should not have been fucking. 

He waved the bartender down and ordered a double. Then he busied himself with his phone.

He shot a quick text to his siblings' group chat asking where they were. No matter the outcome of Dany's discussion, he would need to find them soon.

Arya’s response came first: _‘I’m at a table in the middle-right side of the room. Near the bay window.’_

Robb’s next: _‘I’ll head over there too, then.’_

It occurred to him that he and Dany hadn’t discussed where they would meet back up. He resolved to make his way toward his family slowly — doing his best not to look toward where he knew she must be.

“I do believe it breaks protocol to turn your back on your princess,” came a cheery voice.

He stifled the laugh that rose up in his chest; it seemed Dany had already finished her conversation. Her efficiency would be impressive, if the activity was anything less terrifying.

Instead her turned, brow furrowed. “It certainly does, my lady. But I've not seen the Princess Royal all evening, and she’d be very hard to miss, what with that hair of hers.”

Her mask did nothing to hide the eye-roll, especially now that she had surrendered her contact lenses. The purple contrasted so sharply with her mask that they seemed almost more vivid than they had without. But her smile was brighter still.

“My mother has agreed to meet with you tomorrow — early, if necessary — for your family’s convenience.”

Jon felt as if he been electrocuted. He’d been so certain that the queen would oppose even this much.

Perhaps she wanted to tell him no to his face; he couldn’t be sure. While he was loathe to allow any sort of hope to race through his veins, he couldn’t stop the small bubble of it that surfaced.

Jon lifted a hand and brushed it against her hip, darting it back down after a short moment. 

“I’ve no idea how you managed such a thing,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s time we go speak to my father and his wife.”

***

Helpfully, the two people he most needed were exactly where they should have been. Jon had planned to finish making his way to Robb and Arya, but as they slipped through the crowd and the Stark table came into sight, Jon realized that nearly the entire family had gathered in one place. He could see everyone but Bran and Rickon.

Dany had fallen into step just ahead of him. If he were less nervous, he’d have teased her for it — the unconscious habit of walking in front of others. But there was no time for banter; Robb’s eyes had landed on him, and he was waving emphatically. 

Beside him, he heard Dany let out a small giggle.

Too much booze had dulled his normally charming brother’s game, it seemed.

When they were just a few feet away, his father’s eyes landed on him. “Jon,” Ned said, “there you are!”

Dany came to a stop beside him, poised. The only indication that she might feel any nerves at all was her overly still posture. Jon hadn’t seen her back so stiff _once_ this evening.

"Father, Duchess..." he started tentatively. "I would like to introduce you to someone."

What he could see of his father's face lit up, a broad smile forming. Duchess Catelyn's... did not. Instead, her lips pursed tightly as she surveyed the woman beside him. Her eyes narrowed as she drank Dany in.

Jon supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, all things considered. But still — his father's wife was raised as a proper lady, a fact she prided herself on greatly. 

Moreover, her manners typically extended to _everyone_ but him. Even Ygritte, the one girlfriend Jon had ever brought home, had received a better reception than this. 

Ygritte, with her sharp mouth and lack of pedigree. Ygritte, who had arched an unimpressed brow when she saw how many utensils were set at the table for their dinner. Ygritte, who probably would rather die than attend a party like this one.

But something about Dany seemed to have riled Catelyn — whether it was her appearance, her dress or the sheer fact that she was standing here with him, he couldn’t say. He even wondered if her frustration was because it was Jon introducing a woman to them, rather than her own son.

He pushed away that thought quickly, though. She hadn’t cared about Robb’s bachelor status when Ygritte came to Winterfell. But if not that, then what? If Ygritte’s wardrobe and accent hadn’t managed to offend Catelyn, then what about Dany was so particularly cutting?

A small voice echoed in the back of his mind; it whispered ugly things. 

Perhaps Catelyn had been alright with Ygritte precisely _because_ she wasn't a member of the nobility. Because cussing and free-spirited as she was, she’d make a dreadful duchess. Ygritte would’ve made him even less of a threat to Robb's position than he already was.

_(Not that he wanted it, because gods, he would never try to steal from Robb.)_

Jon pushed the creeping tendrils of the thought away and straightened his back, turning his neck to face Dany. "May I present my father, Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell, and his wife, Duchess Catelyn," he said. He jolted as he realized they hadn't discussed how he would introduce her. "This is... Dany," he finished, rather lamely.

He tried not to flush as he considered how inappropriate his introduction had been.

To her credit, Daenerys's face didn't falter. Instead, she smiled, a perfect row of white teeth beaming at the two of them. "It is truly such a pleasure to see you both again; it has been so many years since we've spoken. And Duchess Catelyn, you look lovely.”

He could see his father's slightly puzzled face, could see his eyes run briefly over her face and hair as he tried to place her. But before he could, for whatever reason, Catelyn chose to commit the biggest social faux pas of her life.

_‘Perhaps her first ever,’_ Jon would think later as he replayed the moment over and over again in his mind.

Sneer firmly in place, his father’s wife aimed for the jugular.

"I wish I could say the same," Catelyn replied, "but I must admit I am surprised to see someone dress in such a manner at a royal ball." Behind them, he could see his siblings react. Arya looked appalled; Robb's jaw dropped. Even Sansa, usually so in tune with her mother, visibly winced.

Beside him, Daenerys’s spine stiffened. His own jaw was agape. It was beyond him even to be affronted; he almost couldn’t believe what had just happened.

To his credit, Ned did his best to interject. "Catelyn —" he started.

But she was unrepentant. "What?" she asked. "I'm simply saying, it seems rather disrespectful to Her Majesty to wear such a gown at a formal event."

“I see," came Dany’s reply, and now her voice was frigid. "I do appreciate your concern for Her Majesty's delicate sensibilities. Fortunately, my mother does not typically concern herself with the manner in which I dress, particularly when I am inside my own home.”

Her words sucked the oxygen from the room. Jon was almost surprised when the candles around them remained lit; the chill that followed seemed cold enough to freeze a flame.

There was one short beat where Jon watched his family process her words. He could pinpoint the very moment that they understood; Catelyn looked to have been struck dumb, face paling beneath her mask until it looked bloodless. His father’s eyes widened in horror.

Jon silently noted that if he’d ever truly desired confirmation of his parentage, Ned’s response to Dany’s identity was surely it.

Behind them, he could see Arya trying to contain her laughter — her shoulders were shaking silently.

“Your highness,” came the duchess’s nervous voice, cracking, "I must apologize —”

Daenerys held up a hand to halt her. “Enough,” she said. “I have no need for courtesies where there are none. Jon simply wished to reacquaint us, and I wished to make certain you were both aware that my mother has requested he take tea with her tomorrow.”

She truly was a marvel. Even if her earlier appearance had fooled him, the way she carried herself should’ve given her away. Dany was a born leader.

By now, Sansa and Robb had taken up positions next to Arya. Sansa looked to be some combination of stunned and delighted — no doubt imagining the possibilities of such access to the royal family. Robb, on the other hand… he was pretty sure his wide-eyed brother was just mouthing something to the effect of, _‘What the fuck?’_ repeatedly.

That was fair. Jon wasn't entirely sure what the fuck was happening, either.

His father’s eyes were still darting between them unsubtly, and the duchess still looked as if she’d been slapped across the face.

If there was anything in the world that would truly mortify Catelyn Tully, it had to be a member of the royal family calling her discourteous. He almost felt a bit bad for her.  But Jon wasn't complaining, not when it was working to his favor as she fell all over herself to assure Daenerys that they would — _of course_ — delay their departure to accommodate the queen's request.

She seemed oblivious to her husband's horror. But based on the look on Ned's face, Jon was quite certain he'd be getting a private talking to later that evening.

Jon excused himself and Daenerys as politely as he could, using the excuse that he wanted to say goodbye to her for the evening. The moment they were out of earshot, he turned to her nervously.

"I'm sorry about her,” he said quickly. “She just can't stand me. It's nothing at all to do with you.” But Daenerys just waved her hand carelessly.

"As if I care what she thinks of my gown," she said flippantly. "I just can't believe how brazenly she dislikes you." Her voice was sour and scowling.

Now it was Jon's turn to wave her words off. “And I don't give a shite what Catelyn thinks of me," he said. "Just what you think. Are you sure you want me to meet your mother?"

She swiveled her head to face him, and her eyes softened when they met his. “I… yes. Is that alright?" Her voice was hesitant.

He grabbed her hand gently and pulled it to his lips, the boldest thing he felt comfortable doing in front of so many members of the peerage. Her cheeks were pink.

"Aye," he said, meeting her eyes. “It is.”

***

In the light of day, without the copious decorations, the palace seemed far more intimidating.

That was Jon’s only coherent thought as a guard led him through the high-ceilinged halls that he’d traversed less than 24 hours before.

As predicted, his father had come to speak with him once they were back at the hotel. 

“Son,” he had said, and Jon could see the slightest contraction in his forehead. Ned hadn’t meant to open in such a manner.

But in spite of the fact that his father had deemed this situation severe enough to seek Jon out — to come warn him away from Daenerys — it appeared he still could not make himself say the truth.

He had ambled around the issue for a quarter of an hour before Jon could stand it no longer.

“I know what you’re trying to tell me, father,” burst out of him. Ned’s face was an odd combination of relieved and miserable.

“Then you know why it would be… _inappropriate_ to pursue a relationship with the princess,” he said finally, subdued.

Jon was at war with himself again. He’d thought it through plenty of times now, and he was quite certain that he didn’t give the slightest fuck that Daenerys Targaryen was technically his aunt. But part of him was still that small boy who ached to make the great Eddard Stark proud.

_And yet._

Dany had been the first person in his life who had seen him. _Really_ seen him. And she was something magnificent. A rarity. _A treasure._

Surrendering whatever they might be able to have before even giving it a chance was a repulsive thought. If there was a failure to launch, it would be because the queen said so — he’d convinced himself of that already.  Not because of unwillingness on his own end.

Jon looked up and met Ned’s eyes.

“You’re my father,” Jon began, “and I respect you more than anyone in the world. But I can’t do what you’re asking. I have to… I need to see if it’s…” he trailed off.

His father’s face was resigned. He looked rather tired.

“I learned from my mistakes with Lyanna,” he said finally. “I’ll not pressure you now as I did to her then.”

He stood to leave, laying one hand on Jon’s shoulder. For a moment, the two of them stood there. Then, finally, Ned retreated. 

Strangely, it had almost felt like a blessing — though Jon knew it wasn’t. But it had reassured him enough to get him here, inside the castle, taking one step after another toward the queen’s solar.

They rounded another corner; and at the end of the hall, perched outside an imposing set of double doors, was Dany. She looked even lovelier in the sunlight. Much of the dye had already been washed out of her hair, leaving it a dark shade of blonde. It was almost like gold.

She was beaming — it made him feel warm.

He greeted her as politely as he could manage, unwilling to be caught misbehaving just feet from the queen. His luck, the doors would open just in time for her to catch him taking too many liberties with her daughter.

“Decided not to stand me up, then?” he joked, voice low. But Dany didn’t laugh — her brow furrowed.

“About that,” she said. Her tone was suddenly rather sheepish. “My mother has insisted that you two speak alone.”

The floor fell out from beneath his feet. That was the only explanation for the rapid sinking feeling that overtook him.

“I — what?” he choked out. 

She had no time to respond. In that moment, the doors before them peeled back, and one of the most imposing men he’d ever laid eyes on stared down at him.

Tywin Lannister. The Lord Hand.

“Her Majesty is ready to receive you,” he said. There was no masking the derision in his voice. It was only the slightest bit more terse than his actual face. He looked at Jon as if he were an irksome fly.

_‘Probably good practice,’ _Jon thought, _'for what's about to come.'_

He felt Dany’s fingertips graze him as he stepped toward The Lord Hand and over the threshold. 

Queen Rhaella was already seated when he entered the parlor — Jon could feel his mind blanking. He struggled to remember the exact protocol for this scenario.

Fortunately, it seemed she wasn’t interested in formalities today.

“You may leave,” were her first words, and damn it to all the seven bloody hells if he hadn’t thought she was speaking to him.

He stuttered out something nonsensical. For all his certainty that he'd be judged an unfit match, he hadn’t expected her to do so at her literal first glance.

She eyed him strangely and then continued: “My Lord Hand, that is.”

His cheeks reddened. He wanted to sink beneath the ground.

What a bloody first impression.

Beside him, Tywin Lannister was stiff. But still — he complied, bowing and retreating.  The door thudded back into place behind him with a sense of finality, and then they were alone. 

The queen stared at him silently, appraising. Her posture was immaculate. For a minute or two, or maybe one hundred, she seemed content to just watch him. Finally, she broke the silence.

“I suppose,” she began, “that you have some questions about my son.”

...What? 

That was not what Jon had expected her to say. Not at all.

“I — er,” he started, before trailing off. Because what _could_ he say, really? He hadn’t come before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to ask if his father was Rhaegar Targaryen. He was here for Daenerys. Nothing more or less.

But still, a small voice inside him was screaming — unceasing now that the offer was there.

“Please,” she said when he remained silent, “sit.”

He stepped forward, dazed, until he reach the table. Jon dropped into the seat across from her, brain only now realizing that she seemed to have no qualms about looking at him today.

There was a cup of tea resting in front of his seat, small spirals of steam still rising from it. It must’ve been poured just before he’d entered.

He picked up the small milk saucer and poured some in, leaving the sugar and lemon aside. The queen was still watching him, an odd look in her eye. He rather felt as if he were being tested.

“My son preferred to take his tea sweet. Milk and sugar,” she said.

Had he failed, then? It was hard to say. In that moment, all Jon wished was that Queen Rhaella would be as forthright as her daughter.

“My sister Sansa takes her tea very sweet,” he said, “like her lady mother does. I got used to drinking mine without sugar.”

The queen’s face remained unreadable. When she spoke again, her voice was pure business. “I know you’re here to talk about my daughter,” she said, “but to do so, first you must understand who she is. Who I am. Who the Targaryens _are.” _

He nodded, unsure how to respond.

“My firstborn was raised to be king. He had never disobeyed me before. Rhaegar —” her voice cut off. For a moment, it was just silence between them. Then the queen steeled herself and continued. “He had only ever cared for the kingdoms and his duties before he met Lyanna Stark, and I thought her to be a phase. She was engaged already, and I considered it improper to give him permission to break up a relationship. To wed a woman who was due to marry a high-ranking member of the nobility. Especially given that the man in question is distantly related to us.”

The hollow feeling in the center of Jon’s chest was growing wider by the word.

“When I learned that he had gone behind my back, continued to court her… that he’d impregnated her and that she’d left Robert…” the queen trailed off. “Well, they call the Targaryens dragons for a reason. My rage was terrible. I threatened him. Threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t stay away from her.” Her eyes were watering and miserable now — her skin was pale. “I wouldn’t have done it. Not really. But she believed me; and she loved him, so she sent him away from her. And then she died.”

Her voice was wavering now, wounded. Jon was breathless from the impossibility of reconciling this woman with the stoic queen who sat before him moments earlier.

"I learned later that my son had tried to enquire about Lyanna's pregnancy. But he did so quietly, hoping it would not get back to me. He asked an acquaintance, a reporter he'd spoken with a number of times, to ask around about a baby, for Lyanna had kept her condition quiet. The reporter got in touch with Eddard Stark, who had no idea the question was coming from Rhaegar. He told the reporter that there was no child. And then... well, I suppose you know what happened then.”

He did.

Jon’s head was reeling — he had always wondered, always questioned… if Rhaegar Targaryen really had been his father, Jon had been certain he wasn’t wanted. Why else would the man have left him behind? But if what she said was true… his head was pounding.

She seemed to expect his speechlessness. Finally, he managed to articulate one question: “Why tell me now? Why not then?”

Rhaella tilted her head, considering. 

“It is, in very many ways, my fault that you were not raised by the man who sired you. I am an imperfect woman; and I confess that in my grief, your mother was very far from my mind. It did not occur to me to ask questions of Rhaegar’s contacts for several months, by which point, Duke Eddard was already swearing upward and sideways that you were his natural-born son. I suppose I rather wanted to believe him,” Rhaella said. “Part of my heart died with Rhaegar; I have no other excuse. But I hope you can forgive an old woman for her mistakes.”

It was hard to be angry with the woman sitting across from him, though he might have cause to. But still — in every way that mattered, Ned Stark had been his father. He had not lacked such a figure. He was not one to blame another for a single mistake, not when he'd been raised believing himself to be one.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he mumbled out. 

Her shoulders sank in relief. “Then there is only one more thing to address: Do you want to be with my daughter?”

Jon swallowed hard, remembering — _at last_ — the reason he was here. “I think that I could make her happy. That's all I want.”

At his pronouncement, the queen rose from her seat and stopped directly in front of him. She let her eyes roam across his face freely.

“I suspect many people tell you that you are a spitting image of the Starks, and you are…” she trailed off. “But you also look so very much like my son. The way you carry yourself, the expressions on your face... You stood in front of me once before, you know.” 

_He did. Gods, he did. _And how very wrong he had been.

She was still talking; her voice sounded apologetic. “I could not bear to look at you back then. All I saw in your face was him. Him and my own mistakes.”

The queen turned to leave, calling out her instructions as she padded toward the opposite door from where he’d entered: “Tell my daughter I have given my consent. I had a rather long evening, and I plan to return to my regular schedule for the day.”

Too stunned by her assent to think through what he was about to say, he called out one final question. “Don’t you care?” he asked. “About my blood?”

She paused and turned back toward him. “Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men,” she said blithely. “But it matters not.” The queen’s face pulled into a devilish grin so similar to her daughter’s that he felt like he’d been struck. “As far as my kingdom is concerned, you’re a Stark.”

***

Dany was a colorful blur when he finally emerged. She was at his side almost before he'd crossed back over the threshold.

"Well?" she asked impatiently. "What she did say?"

He kept his face as flat as possible. "I'm afraid you will not be coming North to rescue me any time soon.”

Her jaw dropped, face horrified. She was spluttering, an undignified series of noises that meant nothing. And yet, it drove home how absurd the whole thing was.

Dany seemed so unprepared for a negative response that Jon nearly burst out laughing. How frightened he'd been to speak with the queen, and how unconcerned she had been.

Before she could shove by him and wrench open the door — which she seemed startlingly close to doing — he grabbed her around the waist. 

“Because it would be highly inappropriate for me to drag a princess so far from home, when I could come to her instead,” he grinned.

She sagged in relief, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips against his.  When Dany pulled back, her eyes outshone the sun.

"Can I give you a tour of my home?" she grinned.

His lips twitched up. He felt the wolf rise up inside him again.

"I'd love to see the Maidenvault."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this ride; hope it was (at least a little bit) worth the wait. There may one day be another smut chapter/epilogue, but for now, this baby's done.

**Author's Note:**

> Going to try and finish up the second part this weekend. <3


End file.
